


The One Where Optimus is Mad

by Plenoptic



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: I'm sorry this is nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:23:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: Title says it all. pwp





	The One Where Optimus is Mad

She finds the Prime, and she finds him angry.

That, at least, she expected—whatever’s got him so slagged off has waves of ire pouring into their sparkbond. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. She finds him on the small private range Ironhide has installed specifically for the heinously difficult training runs, smoke all but billowing out of the mouth of his rifle as he guns down the winged targets that whirl about overhead. They fire back, raining live pellets that spark and singe his armor, but he mows through them without even flinching.

Elita steps into the arena and closes and locks the door behind her. The next round of drones deploys, a small fleet of bipedal and single-wheeled electric bots that rush the Prime with weapons drawn. He subspaces his rifle without missing a beat, pulling his massive sword from the holder on his back and whirling it in a wide arc, cutting down the first wave of drones even as he launches toward the second with an actual roar that makes Elita’s spinal strut weaken just a little. Their weapons glance off his armor, doing little more than leaving nicks in his paint, which is already looking a little rough. Normally, taking a blow ends the run, but he’s evidently disabled that little feature in favor of cutting down as many drones as he possibly can. He’s also supposed to be using a blunt edge, of course. Ironhide won’t be happy about his drones being destroyed.

And how. Optimus finishes the fifth wave and flicks his blade toward the ground, spattered now with oil and the small amounts of energon needed to keep the drones running. His optics blaze over the rim of his battlemask, slightly shadowed by his heavy helm. Wave six revs up.

“By my count, that’s fifty drones Ironhide won’t be getting back,” Elita pipes up at last. Her bonded doesn’t reply, readying his blade for the next onslaught. “Sure you haven’t had enough?”

“Elita.” His voice is scarcely more than a growl, and she can’t suppress a wild grin. Primus, but he’s beautiful like this, engine revving and his spark like fire through their link. “Now isn’t a good time.”

She smirks and steps over the small partition meant to keep spectators out of firing range. “End program,” she says, and the drones power down at once, their fragile little arms drooping. Optimus turns on his heel and glowers at her, and doesn’t _that_ send a shiver through her plates. His optics narrow. She’s not making any attempt to hide how she’s feeling—through their sparkbond, he can feel every iota of her want for him, and the heat she feels licking back at her isn’t all anger, now.

“Thought you might prefer an opponent who can actually fight back,” she said lightly, plucking two blades from the rack mounted on the wall, checking that their edges are dulled before tossing him one. He catches it in his free hand.

“You want to spar?”

“Why not?” She gives the blade a whirl, testing its balance.

He considers her for a moment, unresponsive to the playful nudge she sends along their sparklink. That’s fine. If he wants to play hard to get, she’s happy to give chase. With a grunt, he tosses his heavy sword aside, lets it clatter to the ground, and hoists the practice blade. It’s nowhere near as impressive as his weapon of choice, but the sight of Optimus Prime leveling a sword at her, with his optics looking like _that_ , makes Elita’s spark flare painfully, her grin widening.

“Is that a yes?”

“Conditions?”

“First to yield?”

He nods, just once. “Very well.”

Elita turns her grip, holding the blade backhand, smirks when Optimus twitches. “May the best femme win.”

He doesn’t rise to her jibe, hefting his sword in both hands and lowering his shoulders, sizing her up. He won’t go easy on her—that much is apparent. And though the blades won’t leave lasting damage, a good hit will be enough to warrant a quick jog down to med bay to get a scolding and a dent beaten out. She trusts Optimus not to hurt her, but she doesn’t trust him not to make it smart just a little, especially since she’s been pushing his buttons.

She can hardly wait.

And he doesn’t make her—in a move uncharacteristic of her gentle partner, Optimus lunges first, swinging the blade in a low strike toward her knees that forces her to backstep. That’s all the opening he needs—she’s on the defense immediately, narrowly dodging the undoubtedly frame-rattling blows he’s delivering with shocking speed. Parries aren’t an option—with the speed and power her mech can put behind each swing, he’d break right through. She’s seen him cut down bots three times her size with a single stroke of his massive broadsword, and isn’t eager to be on the receiving end.

It might be fair if Optimus were sloppy in his anger, but fury only sharpens his focus—a lesson Megatron has learned the hard way, she knows, and she’s not so fond of this little re-education herself. A hard swing with the flat of his blade forces her to lift her own to block, and the ringing impact of his sword on hers makes her processor fritz for a moment, a stunted, pained gasp choking her intakes briefly. It’s only thanks to experience that she knows what to do next—he’ll try and take advantage of her stunned state and take her to the ground. Vision still blurred and audios still ringing, she twists to the side just as—sure enough—Optimus charges her. The foot she drives into his lower leg is just enough, and he hits the ground with a crash tremendous enough to shake the floor. She has just enough time to kick his blade away before his hand closes around her ankle and yanks, and suddenly she’s on the ground.

Which is bad—she can hold her own against Optimus in virtually any form of combat, but in a grapple, he’ll have her. There’s just only so much she can do against a mech of that size and strength. Optimus—with an agility that is frankly unfair—has already rolled over and is heading for her. He springs, and with a shout Elita rolls over, swinging the sword down hilt first, and grins when the hilt collides with his shoulder. He grunts, his trajectory thrown off just enough that she has time to scramble to her feet, intakes wheezing. Optimus whirls around, already on his knees, and Elita whips the blade up to the underside of his chin a mere moment before he comes at her again. The Prime freezes.

For a moment they look at one another, breathless—Optimus’s optics are burning over the rim of his battlemask and his side of their sparklink is _hot_ , a conflagration that’s part his earlier anger and part carnal desire that she hasn’t felt in—a while, suffice to say. Her arm aches where he struck her earlier and she _wants_ him—and the combination of both is just distracting enough that when Optimus’s optics flash and his hand knocks the blade away from his throat and his massive frame crashes into hers, Elita’s hardly surprised.

“Cheater,” she grunts, struggling as he flips her over and pins her arm behind her back—the one he hasn’t already bashed in with a sword, thankfully. His free hand closes around her throat, applying just enough pressure that she stills.

“Yield,” he rumbles, right in her audio, and she shivers.

“Okay, okay.”

His hands tighten. “What was that?”

Elita rolls her optics. “I _yield_.”

Optimus’s hand leaves her throat, letting energon back into her processors—but he doesn’t get off. Her optics widen when his blunt fingertips brush the panel guarding her interface array, a shaky gasp leaving her mouthplates before she can head it off.

“Open.”

The command is so low, so forceful, that it might as well have come from her own CPU for how quickly her panel retracts, and she utters a short, staticky cry when two thick fingers push into her valve.

“O-Optimus—”

“You’re wet,” he observes, as casually as one might comment on the weather, that same dark edge to his voice, and chuckles low in her audio when her valve contracts around his fingers. He releases her arm to brace himself over her, stretching out a little more comfortably, his hips pressing into her aft with a deliberateness she well recognizes. “You want me, hm?”

She wants to queue up a smart reply, take a shot at that ego that rears its helm whenever he gets like this, but a deft twist of his fingers has her stuttering out another cry instead. Primus, it’s _good_ , those blunt digits pushing in and massaging her valve walls as they draw back up to her entrance, dragging her hips along while she chases the sensation before he forces them in deep again. He’s _just_ missing the impossibly sensitive cluster of neural nodes at the apex of her valve—intentionally, she’s sure.

“Elita,” he prompts, his voice soft, but no less like molten steel. She realizes, a little belatedly, that he’s waiting on her answer.

“Yes,” she mumbles, arches her back at an incredibly deep stroke that _lingers_ just short of where she most wants it.

“Yes what?” His fingers withdraw, and he smears her lubricant around the exposed hollow where her spike could extend, should she let it. It’s tempting, but it doesn’t seem like she’s going to get into Optimus’s valve anytime soon. He’s a mech on a mission.

“Yes, I— _mm_ —want you.”

His hand flattens on her lower back, forcing her hips down before smoothing over the curve of her aft. “Arms behind your back.”

She glances over her shoulder, meets his burning gaze, shivers—and slowly crosses her wrists in the small of her back, huffing when he grips them in one massive hand and hikes them up higher. His frame settles back against hers, a hum vibrating his chestplates, and she jumps when she feels the head of his spike sliding along her interface. She hadn’t even heard his panel open.

“When’d that happen?” she snorts, risking goading him a little.

He rocks his hips, and she sucks in a breath when his tip teases around the entrance of her valve. “When you put your sword to my throat. Obviously.”

“Ooh, wait, there’s a joke in there somewhere—I’ve got a sword you can put—” Her voice shorts out when he thrusts his hips forward, sinking into her in one smooth motion. It comes back on a gasp when he withdraws and plunges back in, the fullness of his impressive spike stretching her so suddenly and so _completely_ and it _hurts_ , just the right amount, just enough she can’t help but mumble “ _More_ ” and cry out when he obliges her.

He still hasn’t retracted his battlemask, she realizes, because she can feel its smooth planes brushing against her helm and neck as he pumps into her with a kind of languid indulgence that irritates her enough that she wants to hit him. He’s masked and splattered with oil and drone viscera, his frame so overheated she can hear the faint _pings_ and whines as his vents struggle to cool him down, and Primus does she ever want him.

He switches their positions without warning her, one burly arm wrapping around her torso to draw her close; he flips them onto their sides, his free hand hoisting up her thigh. The sudden change in angle, his spike gliding along an entirely new portion of her valve walls, has her scrabbling to secure a grip on his forearm, to brace herself against the roughness of each thrust—but as in their sparring match, she’s a step behind him, gasping and shuddering through the aftermath of the previous stroke even as he pushes into her again.

“ _Good_ ,” he says—Primus, _snarls_ —against the side of her helm, his hand curling around her thigh to hold her snug against his lower body. “Primus, Lita, you feel so good.”

Elita whines, struggles—whether to escape the sweet agony between her legs or to delve into it, she can’t tell. It is _impossibly_ good, sending her tripping toward overload much faster than she’d like. They’ve both been so content for her to take him lately that she’d nearly forgotten how spectacular, how intimate, it is to have him inside her, how close he holds her and how rich his groans when it’s his spike stretching her valve and not the other way around.

“You like this,” he growls, sounding pleased, his hips snapping his spike deep into her and holding steady there for a moment, until she whines and grinds back against him. “Rough like this. Being taken.”

If it’s him, yes—only Optimus. And only because, as he takes her, he’s slipped back into their sparklink, his anger ebbing, molten want pooling in the astral space between their sparks, his soft adoration of her such a sharp contrast to the almost brutal treatment to which he’s subjecting her body.

“Optimus,” she manages to gasp out, fingers digging into a seam in his forearm, drawing a soft grunt from her bonded, “I need a—I’m going to—”

“You can overload.” He shrugs, his arm tightening around her torso. “Though I’m not finished with you.”

She does—and he isn’t.

 


End file.
